London locations

Ah an office move, the first in my long and distinguished career. This means the joys of ‘crating up’ your kit and then finding it waiting for you in a shiny, new office space about 800m away. I’ve gone from the bustling streets of central Soho to the bustling streets of the Haymarket.

Head in one direction its Piccadilly Circus and the flocks of tourists eating lunch on Eros, while head in the opposite direction and you enter the supposed-razzmatazz of Leicester Square. Head in another direction, though, and I’ve found the streets become rather quieter, with imposing streets that sort of peter out into nothing as they reach St James Park. This is quite nice really and brings another insight into the unique landscape that is London.

Wandering the other day I found a beautiful arcade, the Royal Opera Arcade, with high white arches and little boutique shops. I snapped a picture, included below.  I also found the hiding place of the Number 22 bus before it begins its slow, winding journey to Putney Heath. The driver looked a picture of contentment sat on the back seat of the lower deck, paper in hand and a Pret cup of tea in another.

So, I’ve now taken in Pimlico, Soho and now have the Haymarket and its surroundings to explore and work within for who knows how long. London, what a wonderful city.

Adventure stories for adults

The phrase page-turner is a highly subjective one. To some it's the single best description they can hear to be enticed to a book, while for others it implies moronic, endless-cliffhanger rubbish. And of course it can be a bit a of both. I read Child 44 earlier this year, the first 'page-turner' I've read in years, and I highly enjoyed it. Both for that longing to continue reading when each chapter ended with a twist or moment of drama, but also because it was an engrossing story. 

Most page-turners are, though, based around notions of terror and horror. How many awful-sounding novels do you see advertised on the walls of stations saying things like, "A horrific murder, a missing child, no time left... - Read the new thriller from..." and it sounds like utter rubbish. Yet these books, like those by Lee Child for example, sell by the millions and must have something to them. Yet I have no interest in reading about horrible murders or about ex-military types solving crimes where half a page is given to clinical descriptions of guns and cars.

This got me thinking, why are there no 'adventure' stories for adults? As children tales of pirates and treasure and all those sort of things were what you craved (see TinTin) and as adults, we still enjoy this - see the films of Indiana Jones or Back to the Future, but I don't know many books of this kind. Books that employ a shameless page-turning strategy, but cover adventure and escapades, without resorting to the darkest recesses of the human mind to stimulate interest.

Perhaps I'll write something, before anyone else has this idea. However, perhaps there are such books out there - if so please let me know!

The Bill Jones school of motivation

New year, new you? That’s what everyone says but few of us ever have the gumption to stick to our plans – higher, faster, stronger and all that – as often the motivation that the number 1 appearing on a calendar gives us dissipates as other numbers such as 4 and 12 and 26 start appearing.

However, one man who may be able to give us the resolve we need to stick to our motivational guns is Bill Jones, a fascinating character from the 1920s dreamed up by some advertising wonks to inspire the business folk of Britain – and later the US and Canada – to strive for greatness.

These are two of my favourites below and there’s a whole raft more on the Retronaut website. I came across this via someone on Twitter but I’ve forgotten who it was now. Sorry mysterious Twitter person – please reveal yourself if it was you and I’ll credit accordingly.

A trip to the Euros in Warsaw

Last week I was lucky enough to get sent to Warsaw in Poland to meet up with UEFA and talk technology before heading to the stadium to see Poland v Czech Republic in the quarter-final of the European Championships.

While there I sat on the seats reserved for the coaching staff and the substitutes, so of course I took the opportunity to sit there and gesticulate wildly at the imaginary players on the pitch in front of me. It was fun.

During the match the crowd was dominated by Polish fans who had either pre-bought tickets for the quarter-final assuming their team would make it through, or just wanted to see some more football as it's taking place in their city. This meant chants of "Polski!" were far louder than anything the Czech or Portuguese fans (of which there were about 12) could muster during the game.

Ronaldo won it for his country, after numerous misses, and seeing him in action for the first time - the preening Portuguese winker - it was easy to see why he's so much better than most other players. Firstly, he just looks bigger, and is clearly so much faster than everyone around him. As Hansen loves to say, "it's all about pace and power, if you haven't got that in the modern game, you're toast".

Also, why does Mark Lawrenson hate football so much? To hear him commentate on the BBC you'd think he'd been ordered to serve a lifetime's sentence carrying out a task that brings him as much ennui as possible, with the judge concluding spending all his time being paid to watch football the worst punishment he could imagine.

The art of storytelling

The other day I was listening to a friend tell a story to some other mates – a tale I had heard before – and about half way through I was suddenly struck by the realisation: “this person just cannot tell anecdotes".

 

Every moment where he should have paused for effect he rushed on, where there was no natural pause, he paused, where he should have added a bemused comic face to match the incredulousness of the story, he instead just kept a passive expression. Come the end everyone laughed, because that’s what you’re supposed to do when someone tells a story that’s begun with the preface that this is a tale for your enjoyment.

But the story could have been so much funnier, I thought, if someone who could tell stories had been in charge. (Not saying I could definitely have done better, but I like to think I could).

When someone tells an anecdote they are usually commanding a group of people’s close attention – perhaps just one other, perhaps 500, usually no more than 10 though, often close friends. Under all these circumstances there is a pressure to deliver a return on the time investment they are giving you.

Yet, using that time and opportunity well is an art and skill that few possess, certainly not in any strong capacity, but we all engage in it, and it’s a social skill that can set you apart.

We all know this: we all know people – friends, family, colleagues – who when they begin a story, comic or otherwise, we starting zoning out, listening merely out of politeness, waiting for the punch line or resolution so we can laugh politely and then get back on with whatever we were doing. 

Others, however, who begin a tale and will command our full attention because we know they will tell it with panache, wit, warmth and verve, so even if it isn’t even that funny or interesting, it will be worthy of our attention because we are lift enlivened by their story telling charm.

I think it should be a job requirement: Tell us an anecdote: I bet you can learn a lot about someone from the story they pick and, more importantly, how they tell it.

Working with your hands is great (if you can do it)

I read a great book recently about the world of work and why office life is not the luxurious evolution of years of toil we believe it to be, but is in fact a drab, unstructured place full of vague management speak, unsure ground and a complete lack of answers.

Many would not need a book to tell them this, but in Matthew Crawford’s The Case for Working with Your Hands: or Why Office Work is Bad for Us and Fixing Things Feels Good he makes the case with allusion to philosophy while comparing it to his own experiences as an electrician, motorbike mechanic and other similar trades, and makes a compelling case that much of work in an office is bad for the soul when compared with the single-minded work of a fixer, builder, craftsman, who is set a task with a single, clear goal: to make it work, and can only be right or wrong.

So, when I bought myself a small, linen clothes bin, that required some self-assembly, I was ready to enjoy the task at hand, to screw a few screws, assemble some wood, pat myself on the back for a job well done. After all, it was only four pieces of wood and some screws: easy but satisfying.

Some 25 minutes later, frustrated, enraged and cursing the self-assembly Gods of Argos, I heard myself say out loud, “Couldn’t this thing just come pre-built!”. I recalled the book and its mantra of building, creating, self-fulfilment through doing, not thinking (as so much of modern work has become: “How do we measure the customer satisfaction of our latest loan insurance policy”? – I have no idea).

So I persevered and, of course, my brain taxed itself enough to actually get the stupid thing built and now I have a place for my dirty clothes – what a fun bank holiday. 

My Dad can build and fix most things, from cars to showers to cookers, while I am utterly bereft of such abilities, (despite many attempts at teaching). Where does this difference come from? Innately or self-taught, or both? Probably both, but then living in the late 20^th century, with its flat-packed, self-assembly fittings and pop-up tent camping gear, it’s not surprising I, and so many people my age, are clueless when confronted by anything requiring true craftsmanship or a working knowledge of woodwork, electricity, construction.

Furthermore, as Crawford notes in his book, nowadays designers and firms don’t want people tampering with their stuff. A friends’ Dyson vacuum broke the other day, but there was no way to take it apart as the screw sockets in use were bespoke, not suitable for an of the array of screwdrivers in his Man Box. Even our fleeting attempts at wanting to fix something, or try to understand it, proved impossible, instead being forced to get A Man to fix it.

Anyway, whether you love your office cubicle or feel it’s a prison by another name, I recommend the book, even if some of the philosophy went over my head at times. Not a philosophy, not a builder, not both as Crawford. What a failure!

Grammar schools and crying

I watched a fascinating little documentary on BBC4 last night about the grammar school setup that existed in the UK after the war and the benefits, and limitations, it offered to those who went and those that didn't.

While it was great hearing tales of inspiration from both those that passed the dreaded 11+ and those that didn't what was most interesting was seeing those that had gone to grammar school recalling with such fondness - and indeed tears on some occasions - the teachers that had inspired and encouraged them throughout those formative years.

In some ways it was a telling example that it's not always where you go or what you know but who's there and who you know that dictates where you end up.

I had a great history teacher at secondary school which inspired me to go on to study the subject at university, whereas my geography teacher...well, let's just say when I heard on the grapevine that he was, eventually, sacked I wasn't that surprised and only wished it had come sooner so I wasn't stuck with him for four years of boredom.

But then what would your school days be without a few crushing regrets?

Weekend Waterloo trains

Most days the train from Wimbledon (which I like to pronounce Whim-bley-don) to Waterloo is nothing but a commute.

An early-morning jamboree of tish-tish headphones, pushing-people and Metro readers, all weekday morning indicators, while the evening is much the same, although you may see the odd loosened tie.

However, take the train on the weekend, and rolling up to Waterloo takes on a completly different air: it's relaxed, almost like you're going on holiday such is the change in atmosphere from the weekday. Where normally the train is taking you to offices, computer screens and sandwiches eaten Al Desko, the weekend train holds the promise of the theatre, friends, galleries and other fun.

It's almost enough to make you forget the prices went up again and twice in the first four days back the trains were affected by various delays.

Thoughts on the end of The Sopranos

Sometimes I go about in pity for myself, and all the while, a great wind carries me across the sky.

So, that was why everyone was so hung up on the end of The Sopranos. Did Tony die or did he not (he, did if you ask me)?. And, the oddest thing, I felt so sad when I realised that. A man who cheat, stole, murdered and much more - it did me in. The idea, unseen, of his death, of his family’s grief, actually made me upset in a way little other, if no, literary or cinematic work that attempts to manipulate that in you has before.

Of course, 83 episodes of following a character around and you’re bound to reach a state of like, respect even, for them – even if they are the head of a ruthless mafia crew in the suburbs of New Jersey. You can’t make a character that’s nothing but evil: the character has to have empathy, understanding, insights, abilities (to take control, to save the day, to outsmart all his rivals) that endear you towards them, and be set up in a situation where you at least understand the way they behave, even if it’s abhorrent.

Tony spends his life surrounded by grief, by misery, stuck in a world where an emotional response is lower than a murderous one – Johnny Sack never recovers respect after crying at his daughter’s wedding when the feds come to take him back to prison having spent just six hours at the event. The hook for The Sopranos comes by sticking Tony in counseling to see the toll a life in the mob can take and its impact on a standard family, while countering this with the extreme violence of the 'work' he's in.

Life is a stress of unimaginable strain, one that obviously causes human responses to close down: horror, fear, respect for life all seems to be dulled, or missing. It reaches like tentacles, the wives seems unaware - although clearly aware - of where the wealth comes from, the children too aspire to the status of their fathers (mostly) fully aware of the awe they too could command in that position: but most end up dead.

Come the end in that amazing final scene, Tony is sat, back with his family again, having presumably won through again, this time a civil war between the families of New Jersey and New York, to retain his status, but he has learnt nothing, never realized it can never end without death or jail, and it looks like death for our hero.

It’s bleak, relentlessly so: family members are killed off for behaving incorrectly, for being stuck in impossible positions between loyalty to loved ones and the FBI demanding information or the risk of jail, for aspiring to a position already occupied.

Tony cheats death once, but he will not do it again. We know this, we cannot see a way out for him, we will it – why, he’s despicable? – but we know it will not work. Then, the end, nothing, blackness, a shock cut to black, the music abrupt, ending, dead.

The realisation of what Meadow sees as she arrives, of what the others must experience: it’s setup and foreshadowed with wonderful writing, setting and camera work: sat in a glorious boat on a beautiful lake discussing the end, which comes as is expected.

Writers’ know what they’re doing, it’s premeditated, planned and executed like a hit.

What a life

One of my favourite musicians is Bruce Springsteen, ably enabled by his epic E Street Band, including the excellently-faced Steve Van Zandt. I saw him in London twice and both times and Bruce and Steve (sounds so simple like that) were having a whale of a time, alongside the now sadly departed Clarence Clemens.

I've been watching The Sopranos since about February, ploughing my way through the entire box set and have reached the final season now, and it still freaks me out to know that Silvio Dante, Tony's consigliere is the same man.

I mean, is it not enough to be a guitarist in one of the greatest and most enduring live bands of all time, that you then need to act in one of the greatest TV show's of all time? Ridiculous.

Lost in translation

It's been a month since I returned from China and Hong Kong and I can't believe I forgot to write a blog about the wonderful Lost in Tranlsation moment that occurred when I checked in to my hotel in Shenzhen, China.

I was hugely jet lagged (leaving at 6pm means you arrive at about 2pm, but to your body it's about 4am) and was also in a slight state of "Crikey, I'm in China, the red state", and so already susceptible to confusion and bewilderment.

Our bags were taken by the bellboys, and we ascend the lift to our rooms, I went inside and checked out the view, and waited for my bag to turn up before I could grab some much demanded sleep.

Sure he enough he turned up and left my bag in the room before heading back to the door, so far, so good. Then, as he got there, there was another man behind him, in workmans clothes, holding a large round bottle connected to a long piece of tube with a nozzle on the end that looked a little like a blow torch.

They both looked at me, I at them, bleary-eyed and the bell-boy pointed at the bottle before pointing at the bathroom. I nodded, "Ok?" I offered, but they didn't understand and so we all just stood there.

I rocked on my heels, the two Chinese men looked at each other, and I felt we might be there forever, until the bell-boy, smart as paint, remembered his mobile phone.

He whipped it out, and showed me a list of tasks he had to do of which number one was "1. insect". I immediately let out an "Ohhhh" noise, as in "Oh, I see", when of course I of course didn't.

I gave him an eager thumbs up and watched as the blow-torch man went in to the bathroom. There was a short swooooshing sounds and then they both left, smiling and happy.

I peered in to the bathroom, wondering if he'd just pumped a lot of insects in to my barthoom as part of some local custom of welcome, but not, don't be stupid ridiculous tired and confused Dan, I thought, they've just removed on from somewhere.

With that I went to bed.

Travels to Hong Kong

Travelling for work can sometimes be a tiring chore, but other times it can be fantastic, with the chance to visit far-flung corners of the world on someone else's account.

Last week I was lucky enough to be sent to Hong Kong and Shenzhen in China for work, and squeeze in a couple of days of holidays to travel around the former British territory.

That's one of the main things that hits you about the place, actually, is its Britishness, with all road markings and signs the exact same design, colours and shapes of British equiviliants.

This may not sound very interesting, but when you're 6,000 miles away from home and everything looks like an English city, it's quite odd, but also reassuring.

The skyline of the city is incredibly too, because it's a huge sweep across the bay of skyscapers, all far, far higher than anything you usually see in London, and then set against an amazing mountain backdrop of towering peaks and greenery.

Those that live at the very top, where the amazing 45 degree peak-tram runs, have amazing views back down over the city, the bay and Kowloon on the other side.

I didn’t really get much of a chance to explore China, as I was only in Shenzhen for one day and that was predominantly for work, but it seemed like the economic powerhouse that much of China is becoming.

There were construction sites and skyscapers in every direction, thousands of cars streaming down every road you could see, while air-conditioning shopping malls are open til midnight selling everything from high-end phones to clothing.

It's communism, but not as we know it.

Catch up

Hello, been too long since something was entered here.

Tennis. 70-68! Where to begin; tennis is sometimes unfairly maligned by people, believing it not to be a hard sport, not tiring, not exhausting, but any sportsman that can play a game, hurling their body around for almost ten hours is clearly some sort of athlete. What's more you have to do it while battling moments of calm, reflection in between points, and then pull of incredible shots, often under immense pressure of 'one mistake and I'm out'.

I've been reading Wolf Hall (still -it's very long...) but it is also very good, in places, which is hard to fully explain, but it's just that in some places the story really picks up and rattles along, and with a little historical knowledge, some of the asides, or hints at the future are very well handled ("You know she's a witch," says one character of Anne Boleyn before she marries Henry, and we all know how that turned out...).

While I am enjoying it I am looking forward to finishing it too, before I go away on holiday next week, as it's a massive book, even in paperback, and quite a tough read, requiring full concentrate; not that I can't concentrate mind you.

I finally got a smartphone too, after months of writing about the things, and it is very nice having a such a sleek piece of tech, that enables me to bring up maps, email and the internet as and when required. That's all really.

The World Cup is coming to life too, although I've not been disappointed with it at all. It always starts a little slow as teams try not to lose, but come the end of the group stages, you often see enthralling end to end games as teams suddenly have to win, as evidenced today with Italy's somewhat surprising loss to Slovakia.

Er...the weather's nice isn't it?

Short words, long words

George Orwell ws good at writing. He wrote some very good things indeed. I read his diaries recently for a review. They were very good. You can read it here. I enjoyed reading it and writing the review.

Panic at the airport

Airports are funny places, I've said it before. Yesterday, flying out of Rome I went through several emotions, mostly fear, frustration and mad running, as I attempted to grab an earlier flight home.

It worked, but only just. You'd think upgrading someone to an earlier flight would be easy, but it comes with surcharges and taxes and incurred costs. Or it would, if the carrier's computers had of been working. They were down though, so they sat there, looking all Italian, shrugging their shoulder nonchalantly, "Waddya want me to do about eh", they seemed to say.

Nevertheless the company who had flown us out there was very accommodating and said they would do it for us (me and another journo), via their booking agency. They did. But, despite the man at the check in desk refreshing his screen like there was no tomorrow, nothing came up on his system. Much confusion all round

So instead I spoke to man at the check-in desk instead: "We're trying to pay, we can't pay over there, and there are seats free, what's the loss?" and he relented, letting us through…at the exact moment they check-in for the flight was closing. We had about 35m before boarding. Could be close…then we saw the passport and security queue. Long…very long.I shouted to everyone, "really late, missing flight, please let us through"…amazing how kind people are when a mad English man is shouting broken sentences at them.

We went through, panic rising all the time as the clock ticked down 20 minutes to go. Then the man from the booking agency rang. "It's sorted, you're on the flight." "Great, we're going through security" I said. "Make sure you make the flight, otherwise you'll have missed the plane and your seats on the other plane will be gone" he replied. Great, just what I wanted to hear. We hurtled through security, no time to put belt back on, went careering on towards the gate to reach…a dead end. What?

A nice Croatian man said, "There's a train, it will be here in a moment". Four or five minutes pass. Getting close now. Throat very dry, nerves rising. Train arrives, pulls in, doors don't open for 30 seconds…it’s a test train (A TEST TRAIN!). One minute later, real one arrives. All fine, zips to gate, we get out, and arrive…boarding delayed by 10 minutes.

A New Zealand man says, "I saw you running, thought we were late or something". He was off to New Zealand. Rome to London to Hong Kong to NZ. That last leg would take 11 hours. Our globes and maps must not give true perspective on distance. You could fly to LA from London in 11 hours. And that's across the globe. I am confused by distance.

Still, made the plane, sat down, arrived home three hours earlier, in daylight, at no extra cost. Exciting. Sort of.

Turning 25

Ah age, what a strange concept. Time, moving on, marking it off as random days pass. Can you really be sure it is the day you were born? In all those days are we sure someone didn't lose count and we're running a day behind or ahead?

Well, of course not, but you know, it's an interesting idea. I turned 25 the other day. A nice round number to turn, I went silver at midnight, just for a flash, then back to skin and things. I think I've done enough things for being 25, run a marathon, given a speech, written for the nationals, seen a solar eclipse, that sort of thing. But some people are millionaires by now, or have won Olympics gold medals, so I guess it's swings and roundabouts.

I was ill on the day itself, great. It was day 8 of a 10 day cold/infection that seems to be going around. It was not enjoyable. But I screwed it and had some whiskey and food and an enjoyable day was the outcome.

Mostly though I thought, in passing, not in some great deep thinking away, about where the next five years will take me. It will be almost to the day that the next election takes place, my life in fives mirroring our new coalition government. Me as the nation, like a poor, less relevant or accurate Saleem Sinai. We'll see I suppose, where it all goes, whether it's up or down, forwards or stagnation.

So, advice and tips please, what things should I do between now and 30? Serious, fun, silly, all welcome. But nothing cliched or impossible.

Walk on

About two months ago I interviewed Nat Severs as he passed through Cornwall as part of his epic walk around the entire coast of mainland Britain. So all of Wales, all of Scotland (look at the west coast, yeesh! So many inlets).

Nat's blog and photo diary has made for fun reading and it was great to be able to write about his epic walk. As you can see from the images attached, click to enlarge and read (just about), he's certainly looking the part of the lone walker, striding out each day to rack up 20 miles plus.
Have a read of the article if you wish to learn more, or visit his blog and slip his charities a little virtual something for his troubles.

Creeking

I've always liked Jonathan Creek, not entirely sure why, but I suppose it must be mainly due to the intricacies of the plot and the infuriating plots that are unravelled by the end.

Writing a JC must be a case of plotting backwards from the ridiculous explanation to the set up at the beginning but this does mean that the story (as most mysteries do) lives and dies by its explanation.

Last night's had all the hallmarks of a good solid, spooky mystery but had to be explained with sudden last minute bits of information the audience had no access to until we were merely told about them. Other, better JC's involve the possibility of solving the mystery yourself, although of course you rarely do.

In other plotting news, I finished Midnight's Children yesterday and have to say I thoroughly enjoyed it. I seem to have read a lot of long books this year so far, which takes up more time in the way I do enjoy 'ploughing' through novels, but there is something very enjoyable about spending a long time really getting involved in a story, and satisfying about finishing it.

And, in a nice finish to a blog all about writing, this is my 500th blog post (500!). All these words, thoughts, ideas, ridiculousness, and not a penny to show for it! Ho hum.

Approaching midnight

About 3/4 of the way through Midnight's Children and it is thoroughly excellent. Often I'd heard of it, the "Booker of Bookers", and thought, can it be that good? Can any book be that good? Well, unless we're heading for a turn in form and style that even Devon Loch would be ashamed of, then yes, yes it is.

It's not just that the writing is so ornate, so lavish, lush and beguiling, it's that it's full of intricate plot details, clever set pieces that drive this plot, full of identifiable feelings and emotions, and also replete with magic realism, far out ideas, historical references and world-altering events.

Usually I can read a 400 page book in about a week (no boast, just true), but such is the rich, vivid detail of this book, that I am only now reaching the final 100 pages after three weeks. And yet I am relishing this, enjoying every turn of the page, every new location, character and plot foreshadowing that Rushdie ushers in.

Much like Hoare's Leviathan from last year, this is a book that is causing me to almost miss my tube stop both on the way to work and, more impressively, on the way home too, so engrossed am I in each page, each paragraph, sentence, word.

Recommended.

The land of chocolate

I was in Hannover over the last three days. What a jolly time it was. Currywurst, Schtnizel, Ham for Breakfast, lovely. I found the people very pleasent and helpful, and the trains were very, well, punctual. Infact I took a train from the center of town down to their equiviliant of our NEC (only bigger, and nicer) to pre-register as press (oh, such perks). I felt like a very watered down Paul Theroux doing this as I've been reading his The Great Railway Bazaar - it's very good.

Some people don't see to like Mister Paul because he is so grumpy and doesn't seem to like many of the people he meets and writes about on his travels but I like it for this very reason. It seems much more real and relatable. Theroux always advises travels writers against getting planes as you learn nothing about a country by flying in to it. This is probably true. I flew with BMI to Hannover and got bumped to first class on the way back. I don't know, it was nice, and leg room for a 6ft 2" chap was a luxury, but would it be worth the massive increase in expense, I'm not so sure. Maybe long-haul, maybe then. Yes, then I think it would be good.

Heathrow is rubbish though. Huge passport queues, a massively overpriced heathrow express service, that only leaves you dumped at Paddington, and that's about it. Do you like me just rambling on things? Is it good? Or do you want something else from me? Hmmm.